I want to write something. But nothing hard. Not the queue of difficult posts that jostle in my pocket each day. Bodhi's birth story, things from counselling, the need to rock in a corner and wail and wail out the tears that keep welling up against my will, that elephant post for some reason, not being able to write about my marriage. None of them.
I want to write something beautiful, poetic, with twists and turns, alliterative and assonantal, enigmatic and charming, new.
But I'm fucked if I know what.
I'm fighting the confessional urge, the thing that for some reason makes me feel the need to tell every foible and fuck up, every horror and fear. My weight and date of birth.
Why? I don't know. Because otherwise they feel like secrets, maybe. I never had any truck with them, with not telling.
But I'll be content with this: despite having given up wheat yesterday, I seem to be suffering from terrible Trapped Wind.